Stuffed
by DaarioWolfe
Summary: Tracer finds out Widowmaker's dirty secret.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Another speed prompt!

* * *

So, she thought it was all over.

She thought she could simply shoot Mondatta in front of me, kick me against a wall and then jet away on a plane like nothing even happened— _mission accomplished, good job Widowmaker_. Well, she was dead wrong.

Dead wrong.

If she'd thought it was over, she definitely has another think coming, because I'm onto her now. Literally. I knew she would still be in London hours after the shooting. The Talon aircraft she'd escaped on was not meant for long distance travel—which meant it was only supposed to be a quick getaway vehicle; which meant the spider was still crawling around somewhere in Greater London.

Honestly, tracking her down wasn't all that difficult to do. Wasn't all that difficult at all, considering the millions upon dozens of surveillance cams littered throughout the city. It had helped too that Widowmaker was dumb enough to turn up somewhere populated. Oxford Circus, for that matter.

But more specifically, can you guess where, _exactly_ , I'd found Widowmaker? Seriously. Can you guess where I'd found her?

* * *

"Cheers love!" I'm screaming loudly as I whip out my holophone from my jacket's pocket. There's a flash, a snap, and I've successfully taken a thumbs-up selfie with Widowmaker caught in the background—ass sitting pretty on a red plastic chair—with her mouth wide open in the midst of biting into a Big Mac.

"I can't believe this! I've got you now!" I'm giggling as I quickly post the picture on my public InstaGrumps account for the world to see.

The caption reads: Internationally wanted assassin **WIDOWMAKER** caught stuffin' face at MackyD's! :P

Barely 10 seconds after the picture is posted, and I've already gotten a few thousand likes. It looks like Hana has shared the picture on her social media pages too. Maybe that's why it has blown up (I'm new to Insta, only have about 400 followers at this point).

"Look love! Look how _popular_ you are!" I'm grinning really wide as I blink over to where Widowmaker is sitting near the back of the Mcdonald's joint, shoving my phone into her face as I show her the picture with all its likes and comments.

"Look, look! Someone just commented that you are really photogenic love!" Then, squinting, I try to make out the rest of the words in the comment. "Really photogenic… albeit a little… a little sick lookin'—welps! I think that just might be due to your unnaturally bluish skin tone, amirite? Can't quite be helped… ooh wait—look now, someone else is askin' if you've been filtered. LOL!—I should really reply to that—" I bring the phone up to my face as I start typing furiously: "Nope! Widowmaker sure ain't filtered or anythin' like that! She really is that blue! It's au naturel y'all! Her natural skin tone! As to why she is _like that_ , well... beats me... you've gotta ask Talon for that one…;))"

Next to me, Widowmaker has slowly put down her burger (with two extra meat patties and three extra cheese, no vegetables, I notice. Must be special order) until it's now resting on the standard Mcdonald's plastic tray.

"You really shouldn't have done that." Her voice is low and quiet as she says this. Somber, almost.

"Aww cheer up, French fry! It's really not that big of a deal!"

In the television at the corner of the joint, the red glaring words 'Breaking News' flash up on the screen, alongside my blown up selfie of me giving a thumbs-up, with Widowmaker behind me eating a big mac. The screen proceeds to zoom in on her, with her mouth wide open, before subsequently panning back to the news anchors as they sit down to interview an anti-terrorist expert.

"You really shouldn't have done that chérie." Widowmaker is saying now. Her voice sounding a little choked up, a little sad. I turn around to look at her. Her face looks cramped, almost as if she's about ready to cry.

I wonder why. "Relax! It's not that bad of a picture! Besides, these things will blow over in a month…"

"You don't understand." She cuts me off, picking her burger back up with both hands as she studies it intently—glaring at it, her eyes watery.

"What don't I understand?"

"You don't understand that Talon has imposed a very _strict_ diet regime for me. If they find out I'm here, what I've been up to in my free time…" Widowmaker's voice trails off and she noticeably stiffens. "Do you even know how deprived I've been the whole while…? If Talon finds out I've been falling off the wagon and eating fast food every opportunity I'm out on my own, it would mean compulsory sessions of reconditioning. A _whole lot_ of reconditioning." As she says this, she bites down savagely into her beloved Big Mac—one bite. Two. Three—almost as if she's trying to stuff herself full before she no longer has the luxury to do so.

I feel a sudden rush of sympathy (and guilt) for the Talon operative.

"Well love. Um, why don't you just quit then?"

"Quit Talon? Where will I even go?"

"Overwatch?"

"Why will I do that?"

"Well. We have a Mcdonalds back at base for starters? I'm sure you can eat as much of that as you want."

Widowmaker shoves what's left of the burger into her mouth, before reaching out for the double-chocolate upsized milkshake to her left. "I vill fink abuff fis, shery." She tells me, her mouth full and chewing. "Aft weel fink fufu fis."

God, the woman has never looked or sounded more sexy.


	2. Chapter 2

"Cheers love! The calv'ry's here!"

When Widowmaker opens the door of her swanky high-end hotel room in Prague, her face is one of utmost dismay, almost as if it might collapse on itself at any moment.

" _Nom de Dieu_ ," she eyes me for a second, before squeezing them shut and placing one hand on her forehead. " _Bordel de merde_ ," she groans out loud. " _La vache_ ," her head tilts back as she looks up at the ceiling.

" _Calv'ry's 'ere_!" I repeat, my grin stretching wide and showing far too much teeth to be pretty.

"How did you find me?" She glares. "What are you doing here?"

"Ain't it obvious what I'm doin' ere love!" I'm saying this as I hold up seven packets of brownish doggy bags, all with the trademark yellow M stamped on the front.

"I didn't know you now work for Mcdonalds' Delivery." She deadpans.

"I don't! But Overwatch's audio scan picked up your voice pattern from civilian frequencies when you placed your order! Doesn't take much to jet right on over and intercept!—You know love, you gettin' a wee bit sloppy with this whole Mcdonald's deal. Wee bit sloppy. Anyway, food's getting cold—can I come in?"

" _Non_." She folds her arms and blocks the door. "You cannot come in. You stay here outside. You pass me my food and you go away."

"Nope. Nope nope," I blink up at her, still smiling. "Either I get invited in, or you don't get ya paws on these babies."

Widowmaker stands there, stiff as a corpse in a coffin. Her eyes bore daggers into mine, they dart over to the seven doggy bags I clutch tight in my hands, and then back at me again, as though weighing her options.

I see her fists clench and unclench. I see her shoulders tense up. Her feet starts to spread apart just the slightest, and she seems to be bouncing a little on their balls. _Uh oh_. I know that stance well. I know what she's about to do, what she's thinking of doing.

She's planning to _snatch_.

"Nuh-uh," I shake my head at her. "Don't even—" I lift up a hand (still clutchin' the bags) and wiggle a finger. "Don't you even try! If you so much as point a _finger_ in my direction, love, I'm throwin' all these on the ground 'n' stompin' till high noon. Try me! I can blink faster than you can punch—your call, love!"

A tense moment passes where I stare at Widowmaker, and Widowmaker stares back at me.

 _Finally_ , her shoulders visibly relax.

"Fine," she hisses, stepping aside to let me through. "Come. In."

I'm grinning as I brush past her and through the door and—

 _Whoa_ _._ The hotel suite Talon's put her up in is pretty darn _nice_ to say the least. Usually when I stay in hotels, they only have one room, sometimes not even a shower. Sometimes they don't even have a bed or a window. Widowmaker's suite has a bloody _lobby_ , and a bloody _balcony_ that overlooks the city when you step through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room area, and oh look, there's also a fancy _crystal_ _chandelier_ hanging from the ceiling, and a freaking swede-designed _dining wing_ right there in the corner...

Oh well. At least we have a Mcdonalds there at Overwatch…

"You know, love," I say as I start making my way over to the dining area. I figure that's where she'll want to eat. "I must say I got a little worried after that InstaGrumps incident. Didn't see you out in the field nor hear a peep from you for awhile. What happened?"

"What do you _think_ happened?" She scowls pointedly at me.

"Yeah… I figured as much.. welp, hope it wasn't too bad… did tell ya to run…" I place the bags on the table before digging into them, methodically taking out the food and arranging them neatly on the table—a line of burgers, a cluster of fries, a row of shakes— _beautiful_.

"Anyway, if you went through the reconditioning. Then how come you're like this now?" I gesture down at all the food on the table. "Let's see, you ordered 8 special Big Macs with extra cheese and extra meat without any vegetables; three full-fat, double-chocolate milkshakes upsized with extra whip cream on top, and four packets of L-sized special curly fries with add-on paprika shakers...—what happened? They didn't manage to beat the cravings out of you?"

"Clearly not," Widowmaker replies stiffly, wrapping her arms across her waist. "My last conditioning was nearly a month ago. Sometimes… sometimes... I relapse." She shivers slightly. "I've been told to inform Talon when this happens but, sometimes my body.. yearns. It can't be helped." She hugs her arms tighter around her belly.

I suddenly feel a strange sense of compassion for this woman. Just look at her, she can't even eat her beloved Big Mac when she wants to. Can't even openly indulge in a luxury as small as a burger. It should not be like this. Widowmaker deserves more.

Speaking of more. Think I might have forgotten something!

"Wait! Hold on a minute—!" I pat around my jacket for a bit before reaching into my pocket and digging out one last brown-bag. "Almost forgot this, love! It's your happy meal—"

Widowmaker perks up. "What's the toy?" She asks, almost eagerly, cutting me off mid-sentence.

" _Of course_ you know what it is," I'm beaming as I'm saying this, my hands delving into the bag and pulling out a small, brightly colored orange figurine. "Cheers luv! Cal'vry's ere!" I mimic myself in an excessively high-pitched voice as I present her with an Overwatch Tracer collectible wrapped in clear plastic.

(Yes. Mcdonalds has been offering Overwatch figurines with their happy meals, that's how popular we are right now! It sells, but they are not politically endorsed though.)

" _Merrrde_." Widowmaker cries out softly as she closes her eyes, as though in great pain. " _Merrrde,"_ she repeats.

"Are you… are you alright, love?"

Shaking her head, Widowmaker doesn't reply. Only proceeds to mutter a string of fluent French phrases under her breath, all too soft for me to catch. Probably not anything good, because when she next looks up at me, her amber eyes are _burning._ Literally, they _burn_.

"You crétin," she bites out. " _Imbécile."_

"Hey! Hey! What did I do?! That was unwarranted!"

"It's the _toy_ ," she's saying this like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "The _toy,_ " her voice chokes up, and she suddenly looks overwhelmed.

"What is wrong with the toy?" I ask, feeling rather puzzled. "I was told the Tracer collectibles are the bestsellers! And look, they're really cute aren't they?" I look down at the toy in my hand—it's a tiny pop vinyl Tracer—really very cute, very well made. They did a pretty good job with the hair and the eyes, I must say, really captured the essence. This figurine has my stamp of approval and I can't imagine anyone not liking it.

"What is _wrong_ is that—I _specifically_ asked for the _Bastion_ collectible." Widowmaker rears her head up at me, hissing.

"Oh you did?" I bite my lips. "Um.. _Oops_. Must not have gotten that order down… but hey, look on the bright side! A Tracer toy's good too!" I pass the toy to her. She takes it in her hands and… hurls it cruelly against the wall.

"Foolish girl!" _Clunk._ The toy hits the wall, it bounces; hits the ground, it bounces again. "Foolish girl! I already have twenty of these! What I really needed was that _Bastion_ to complete my Overwatch summer set." She buries her head in her hands. I have honestly never seen her look more miserable.

"Wait, how come you have twenty Tracers?"

" _What do you think?_ " She snaps. _"_ No one _wants_ them that's _why!_ That's why they have a lot of it available—"

 _Hey! Not true! A lot of people want them, that's why they shipped a lot of it!_ I'm thinking this defensively in my head.

"—and I always, _always_ end up with them," she grates out bitterly. "I also have three Hanas, one Winston, two Pharahs, two Zenyattas, and one Mercy, and what I really needed was that _last_ _Bastion_ to complete my collection. Nowhere else has it. It's _that rare_. _That rare!—_ Merde _._ This outlet I ordered from was the 24th one I've called in this area. They promised me they have the last one. The last one." She stares dejectedly down at the ground, her eyes seem to be misting over. "One month of avid collecting. One month of sneaking around Talon…" she shakes her head. "All down the drain thanks to you."

"Aww shite." I'm starting to feel a little guilty as Widowmaker wordlessly strides past me, plonking heavily down on a chair at the dining table.

Viciously, she snatches up a Big Mac from the pile, fingers making short work of the wrapper before bringing it up to her mouth, biting into it with much vigour, as if to compensate for the darkness of the emotions swirling within her.

"Aww love. I really didn't know, I'm so sorry—"

"VonDeven," she says this in between a mouthful of food and a gurgle of shake. "VonDeven…" she holds up a hand.

Looking at the woman now, voraciously eating. Voraciously eating _a lot_ because she has no other way of dealing with her wellspring of hidden emotions, I feel my heart cracking and splintering into a million tiny pieces.

 _What should I do now?_

"Um… well then," I say. "I really ought to be headin' off, love." I start inching towards the door. "Will you… will you still be here the next few days?"

She doesn't reply me. Just continues attacking her burgers and fries with a strange sort of methodical precision.

I repeat myself, voice raised a notch: "Will you still be here the next few days, love?"

Eventually, she nods without looking up at me.

"Good," I tell her. "Good. Don't—don't you go anywhere, love!"

 _Don't you go anywhere! Cause I'm gonna get you that last Bastion toy if it's the last thing I do, dammit! I'm gonna get it for you, even if I have to fly the whole world to search for it!_


	3. Chapter 3

_Ring ring. Ring ring. Ring ring._

The back of my skintight denim jeans starts to vibrate as my phone sounds out. My fingers reach for it, and I answer.

"Hello?"

"Hallo?" Angela Ziegler's bonkers accent comes up through the earpiece. As usual, the doctor doesn't sound too happy to be speaking with me.

"Häagen dagen, Angela!" I greet her brightly, hoping to offset whatever foul mood she appears to be in.

It doesn't work.

"Lena Oxton," the doctor grinds out. "Where. Are. You."

"Where am I?" I ask, feigning innocence. "I'm at home, about to tuck in."

"Don't you dare lie to me!" Angela's voice goes up by several octaves as it starts to take on a sharply staccatic quality. I've realized by now that it's common for German speaking people to intone like this when they are very flushed or excited. "Don't you lie to me Lena. Winston tracked your phone GPS all the way to **China**. _Mein Gott_. What in the world are you doing in China!" Angela asks this in a very powerful manner, and I have to resort to lifting the receiver away from my ear due to the immense discomfort of her voice.

The doctor may be a thousand miles away, but I certainly have no problems picturing her in her crisp white lab coat—probably making coffee or something in the pantry—with one hand cradling her phone tightly against her ear and her other hand waving madly in the air like a wand.

 _Abracadabra. Abracadabra._

"Relax Ange," I sigh. "There's nothing to worry about. I'm only in China to check out some very crucial terrorist leads."

"Do those leads have anything to do with… oh, I don't know—scheissen _McDonalds_ , perhaps?" Angela pauses to catch her breath, and my heart rate rises in accordance to the sound of heavy heaving on her end.

"Like I said Lena, Winston's been tracking you. All of us here at Watchpoint Gibraltar are absolutely _breathless_ to know why you've been zipping around from one McDonald's outlet to the next in _Shanghai_ the past two days. I don't know what you think you are doing, but can I ask that you please stop fooling around? This is serious work we are trying to accomplish here at Overwatch and you already know how severely shorthanded we are. Which is why I'm ordering you to report back to base this instance, we already have a backlog of missions as it is and I am very tir—"

 _Click_. I calmly put the phone down.

Within the next three seconds, my phone rings again.

I pick it up.

"Ola?"

"Lena. Oxton. You did not just—"

"Wrong numba."

 _Click_. I press the red button on my cell once more, easily cutting her off.

For the next fifteen minutes, my phone does not stop ringing.

On the sixteenth minute however, the ringing ceases, replaced by a series of short beeps as I find myself greeted with 5 SnapChap pictures of Angela making increasingly menacing faces into the camera.

The last picture shows her with her nostrils flared out, gripping (what looks to be) a gleaming silver chopper in her (surgical-glove-clad) hand.

The caption reads: You better come back now. Or else.

 _Bloody tic tacs. Who in the world thought it a good idea to slap this woman across the face with a medical license and set her free to roam? Who? Which academic institution?_

I would very much like to know.

Angela Ziegler is likely the scariest, most unbalanced human being I've ever met.

Honestly, a part of me can imagine how if I don't return to base right now, I would wake up one night to find myself lying naked atop Ziegler's operating table, perhaps with half a kidney carved out or even half a lung missing.

The threat alone should have been enough to scare me into submission _but—the_ crystal-clear image of Widowmaker's face suddenly flashes through my mind like a lightning bolt. The image of her puffy purple face chocked to full capacity with hot sauce and a special order big mac; the way her eyes turn almost-red as she bites down into her burger with much vehemence and she begins eating and eating and eating her little heart out, almost as if there's nothing else left in her world to look forward to. _No_. I cannot let Widowmaker down like this. I can't. Right now, there is something more important than a kidney or a lung, and I can't in good conscience return to Gibraltar without first accomplishing what I've set out to do. My heart is resolute.

Around me, a light pitter-patter grows audible as grey sleet starts falling from the skies in abundance. I'm standing there in the middle of a gloomy sidewalk off Nanjing Road with people dressed in bleak-colored attires hurrying past me, their heavy boots kicking up puddles of water from the pavement as they make for shelter.

Setting my jaw, I pull my hoodie up snug over my head while I stare down at a list of addresses scrawled hastily across an A5 sized paper (ripped off unpaid from a bookstore's notepad). Despite my best efforts to keep it dry, the paper is starting to turn transparent from the rainwater soaking through. About three-quarts of the addresses have been struck off with heavy black lines. Now, there's only about a mere quarter of them left.

 _A mere quarter of addresses, but a pocket full of hope._

My mouth presses into a grim line—

 _Widowmaker... please wait for me._

With that thought, I turn and slowly trudge away into the curling Shanghai mist.


	4. Chapter 4

There's a saying in London: if you can't find it in China, then you can't find it anywhere.

Which is why China is well and truly my last hope—Shanghai, actually, to be precise (it's the only city in China where the collectibles are available).

At this moment, the rain has abated and the puddles on the ground are already starting to dry—much like how my McDonalds leads have dried. I'm currently staring down at the last address on my tattered piece of paper, and then back up at the sad excuse of a structure standing next to a closed-down gas station with flickering lights.

My heart sinks. If the large stores in the commercial districts do not have the Bastion, I doubt this little run down outlet would have it either. Nonetheless, I find myself praying as I push open the crusted glass doors that leads into the joint.

"欢迎光临." A robotic voice chimes out as I step in and approach the orange-coloured counter caked in grease. The lone omnic working behind seems to have seen better days. They are one of those older infantry models made in abundance during the first Omnic crisis. I wonder what had happened for them to end up here in this bunghole.

"Hi," I greet. "Do you speak English?"

"Yes, of course. How can I help you, Miss?"

I lift up a finger, point shakily to the poster behind the counter; the one advertising the whole range of Overwatch collectibles in loud, gaudy colors. "Do you still have those available?"

"Yes. Which one do you want?"

"The Bastion?" I don't realize this, but I'm actually holding my breath.

"The _Bastion?_ " The Omnic makes a small whirring noise that can come across as a ' _hmmm'_. "I will have to check with management. Will you wait?"

"Yes. Please go ahead."

I watch them disappear through a small doorway out into the back. My feet tap nervously against the floor. _Please god. Please let them have it. Please, let them have it._

After a minute the Omnic reappears.

"I'm sorry to inform you," he says this in a flat tone. "But the Bastion is all sold out. May I recommend you the _Tracer_ instead? We still have those available and I believe they are very popul—"

My face falls drastically. I try to hold back frustrated tears. "Nah, it's ok… it's ok, thanks anyway, you have a good day now." Turning, I trudge dejectedly back out the front door.

There goes my last hope. I'm feeling strangely vacant as I stand there outside, staring dazedly down at the pavement, weighing my options. I suppose I have no choice but to head back to Gibraltar now _,_ considering I've literally checked everywhere and—

"Psst. Hey, you." A voice calls out, startling me out of my reverie. Looking up, my eyes dart around for the source.

"Yes, you. I'm talking to you, over here."

It seems to be coming from the darkened alleyway between the McDonalds and the closed down gas station.

"Over here, girl."

Curious, I walk towards the alley. See a man leaning casually against the grey-bricked walls, right next to a doorway I presume leads to the McDonald's kitchen. The guy has messy black hair that sticks out in tufts and wears a grease-stained McDonald's uniform in the standard colors of red and yellow. He doesn't seem suspicious at all.

"Come closer." He beckons to me, a freshly lit cigarette dangling off his fingertips.

"Yes?" I ask, quizzically. "What is it?"

His gaze flickers up and down my frame, as though sizing me up. I watch him take a long, slow drag from his cigarette before blowing out a badly-formed smoke ring.

"What is it?" I ask again. "What do you want?"

"Word on the street is, you are looking for a Bastion toy." He drones this out slowly, his words tinged with a slight accent but not difficult to understand.

"Um… _yeah._ I literally just went inside your shop and asked for it a minute ago. They don't have it though."

"I'm not surprised," the man shakes his head. "Not surprised at all. I'm guessing they didn't tell you this, but _someone_ came in weeks ago and bought all the Bastion we had out in bulk."

"Nope, they didn't tell me that. The Bastion is really that popular huh, what about the Tracers? Did anyone buy those in bulk?"

The man ignores my question. "What if I told you," his voice is low as he takes another drag from his cigarette, the sleeves of his uniform rolling up then and I catch a glimpse of a grey-green cartoon squid tattooed on his forearm. "What if I told you, I might have _information_ regarding the whereabouts of a Bastion that's up for grabs?"

"Really?" I perk up. "Well c'mon then, share it!"

"Eh, but you see," he looks around the alley nervously (I have no idea why, we are alone, and it's not like we're talking about anythin' illegal) before lowering his voice further and whispering in a conspiring manner, "I had this head concussion when I was a boy."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that—"

"So see, I want to tell you about the toy, Miss, but my head, makes it hard to remember things."

I frown. "If you have trouble remembering, why approach me in the first place?"

" _Because_ ," he stares into my eyes intently. "There are _things_ you can do that might help me remember." He sticks out a pale, bony hand.

I look down at it for what must be half-a-minute before understanding finally dawns on me. _I see_. He must be one of _those people-_ those telepathy-heart-healing-types who need to hold hands and chant the numbana. There are a whole lot of them now, what's with the increased spread of Omnic branch spiritual teachings.

 _No problem. I'm down with all that_. Sticking my own hand out, I grasp his snugly in mine, and we both stand there in the darkened alleyway, our hands clutched tight in each other's.

"Are you — are you gettin' anythin'?" I whisper to him after a while.

He doesn't reply, only stare up at me with this strange expression on his face. We stand there like this for a minute more, and then another, and then I'm startin' to get seriously weirded out.

"Weeeeeellll ok…" I start to say. "Y'know what, this has been real grand, but um, I really need to-"

"Wow," The guy cuts me off, shakes his head, mutters something in a string of rapid Mandarin: "英国女孩儿是不是全都这么愚笨?"

"I don't speak Mandarin…"

"You think I don't know that?" He slaps his hand away from mine. "I don't mean we hold hands you _English girl_ -" he spits the words out like it's an insult. "What I meant was," he scowls at me pointedly. "If you pay me, I'll tell you about the toy."

 _Oh_. _  
_  
My brows knit together. "I honestly thought you were gonna tell me for free."

"Nothing is for free." The man scoffs, takes another drag of the cigarette now burning to the tips. "So how about it, you want the info?" He holds out his hand again.

I look down. This is ridiculous. I don't trust this man at all. Although, right now I'm rather at my wits' end, and am pretty willing to try anything…

"Fine. Do you take pounds?"

He nods, and I can't believe I'm doing this, but I pull out my calfskin wallet (gotten a tad lighter over the past few hours) and pry out a wrinkled twenty to place in his palm. His hand does not retract, and he continues to blink up at me. My eyes narrow, I pull out another twenty, and this goes on for quite awhile, until there's about 200 pounds now sitting pretty in his hands.

"Ok, that's it." I huff, crossing my arms. "No more. That's all you get, you greedy little man! I'm not gonna go above 200 for some unverified information about a plastic toy. Now are you gonna give me my information or am I gonna have to snatch my money back?"

The man sniffs, proceeds to fold the notes neatly into his pants pocket. "This is enough, I suppose."

You think?

He looks around some more, anxiously, and beckons for me to step closer. We are already standing pretty close, but I oblige anyway until I can practically smell him. Leaning in, he cups his hand around my ear.

"I'm not supposed to tell you this." His breath smells like menthol cigarettes and salted grease cheese. "But I happened to hear from a friend, of a friend, who worked with another friend who served under a leftie for the 18K triad-"

 _Triad?_ My nose wrinkles. Why is this getting so convoluted?

"-Apparently, _word on the street_ is this Bastion toy, it's _special_." He whispers the words reverently.

"Special? How? It can sing or what? Shoot sparkles out the plastic?"

"I don't know. But that's what I heard. The factory producing this Bastion? They had about ten thousand made, I heard, but mysteriously they all never got released-saved for a few early shipments of about a hundred crates delivered worldwide. And here's the _weird_ part—someone's been buying them out. These Bastion toys. That's why they are _so rare_. Somebody's been buying them out one by one. _One by one_."

"Um… ok…"

"And that's not all," his eyes dart around wildly again. "Apparently, this I heard, people who bought Bastion toys with their happy meals-bad things.. bad things happen to them."

"Rea-lly now?" I say, sounding more than a bit skeptical. "No offence, but this is turning out to be a little ridiculous." I'm saying this, but my head is suddenly filled with the frightening image of Widowmaker running around, gunning people down for their Bastion toys.

I quickly quench the thought and put it out of my mind. That's absurd. I just saw her two days ago and she certainly _did not_ have a Bastion toy. Not that Widowmaker would even do something like that to begin with. Would she?

 _Would she?_

 _She totally would._ A small voice in my head nags _._ I stamp it out.

"Hey, I don't know ok," the guy is saying, fingers flicking his burnt out cigarette butt to the ground. "I don't know about ridiculous, I'm just telling you what I heard, and here's the kicker…" he looks around, even more nervously than the last time. We are still alone. Have never stopped being alone, and we are still just talking about a toy. At least I think we are "Word on the streets is, there's going to be a black-market auction going down tonight at 3a.m—"

"That's tomorrow morning..."

"—an auction for a Bastion toy."

"A _black market_ auction?"

"Yes."

"A _black-market_ auction?" I repeat.

"Yes."

"A _black-market_ auction for a happy meal toy?" I hope my tone is about as incredulous as the look on my face.

"Yessssssssssssss."

"I don't get it. It's just a bloody toy, or am I missin' somethin'?"

"You are missing everything," he snaps. "Haven't you been listening you English girl?" He grinds out. "Like I said, somebody wants these Bastion toys _really, really_ bad. There's _something_ about them."

"So…" I'm nodding my head slowly, entirely not believing his tall tale but deciding to humor him anyway. "Where is this black market auction gonna be at?"

"I will tell you, but you can't tell anyone I told you."

"Ok."

"Because I am not supposed to know."

"Right."

"I don't want to wake up with my throat slit in a gutter."

"Yes, just spit it out! Won't tell anyone."

He leans in again, breathe the words in my ear: "Xin Tian Mansion, Gao Shing Road."

"Xyhin Chian—wait, hold on, how do you spell it? Let me check it out." I pull out my holophone and unlock the screen, try to ignore the 6 missed calls from Fareeha and the 666 missed calls from Angela— _Jesus Christ_ —as I tap on GroogleMaps.

"X-i-n-T-i-a-n Mansion." The guy relays as I key the address into my phone.

The result pops up. My heart takes a dive.

The place is in the middle of nowhere! More isolated than here and quite some distance away too. The satellite image of the so-called "Mansion" displays a gray, run-down building that, according to the site, is supposedly a _hotel_.

I show the picture to the McDonald's guy.

"Is this the one? Is the auction for the Bastion gonna go down here?"

He nods, somberly.

I feel like I'm in a dream. Or a nightmare.

"Alrrighht…" I say. "Well, _thanks_ for all this _info_. But look, I really gotta go. Um any chance I can get my money back—"

"Remember, you have never seen me," he tells me this in a harsh tone. "You have never talked to me. I have never told you anything. You remember this." With that, he scurries back into the McDonalds before I can say another word. There's a loud _click-click-click_ as the rascal quickly bolts the door to the kitchen. He _bolts_ the bloody door.

Damn him! Cheating me out of my money with bogus shite! I could very well run in through the front door right now and drag his scrawny ass out, but as I look down at the holographic image of the XinTian Mansion on my phone… I suddenly think back to Widowmaker eating her Big Mac; eating it sadly, and drinking her milkshake in large gulps. My heart contracts.

Right now, I have no Bastion toy, am about 200 pounds lighter in the cash department _and_ there's an evil-spirit doctor back home waiting to take me apart.

 _Xin Tian Mansion. What do I have to lose?_

 _One last stop_ , I tell myself. No harm in checking it out I suppose. No harm at all.


	5. Chapter 5

"I am here for the Bastion auction."

I say this with a straight face, trying not to laugh or cry even though I'm partway melting inside.

It's a quarter to three in the morning; I'm currently in the lobby of the derelict Xin Tian Mansion, my hands jammed tight inside my jacket's pockets as I lean nervously against the brown-tinged reception desk.

I'm totally expecting the gray-haired concierge to throw me weird looks after my Bastion declaration, but he doesn't. Only squints at me from behind his horn-rimmed glasses, nods once, asks for a 4500yuan registration fee and room surcharge (bloody murder here in China?), before handing me a small silver key attached to a number tag - 625 - and a heavy billiard ball (which I have no idea why this is).

 _That was… surprising._

I hold up the key with the billiard ball dangling. "Um, auction yeah?" I ask this, unsurely.

The concierge nods again without looking at me.

"So… how does it even work?" I'm trying to keep the stammer out of my voice. Have never been to many auctions, much less ones held in dingy hotel rooms. The concept is entirely alien to me, and part of me wonders if I've not fallen into some kind of terrible tourist trap. Like maybe this is some kind of elaborate hoax I'm not aware of, or maybe they are filming a new Chinese variety show called " _Prank the Brit_ " or something.

The concierge sighs heavily at my question. "All bidders here in hotel." He pinches his nose. "You go into your room with _key_ ," he looks up then, sees the look of utter confusion on my face, sighs some more. "With… key?" He enunciates slowly, pointing at me. So I hold up the key again, my eyes wide.

"Yes," he sighs. "This key. You use key to _open door_ \- put into lock? Open, you know _how_? And then _inside room_ , there will be _laptop_?" He makes a tippy-typing motion in the air. "Laptop, _you know_?"

"Yea… I know what that is."

"You make bid with laptop. _Click click click_. Understand now?"

"Oh ok. So, it's an electronic bid huh…" I say this out loud, and I think the old man just rolled his eyes at me.

"Yes. _Electronic_. And later they will tell you where to collect item." He turns away.

I'm still a little baffled by the state of things, by the fact that there's really an auction, but I thank him nonetheless before turning and walking towards the rickety-looking elevator.

 _Room 625 - must be on the sixth floor._

Riding the elevator up, I notice there are 12 floors altogether in the building inclusive of ground level. The third floor - according to a little bronze plaque next to the button - houses the hotel's amenities, which are basically just a dining room, smoking area and a fitness centre.

I'm wondering why they need a fitness centre. And then I'm wondering how many people are even staying in this hotel. The concierge had said all bidders are here, but the place is so eerily quiet and I've not seen other people thus far, apart from the one or two souls loitering around the lobby when I registered.

 _Crrrriinnk_. The elevator doors open, and I step out, right into a tormented looking hallway that's barely illuminated by dim yellow lighting and stretches out both ways to the left and right.

The place smells kind of musty-which is nice, since it reminds me a little of home-and the floor is layered with worn looking carpet dyed a deep maroon. I've half been expecting the wallpaper to be as tacky as the mustard yellow ones they have down in the lobby, but the ones here are of a deep pine green and is surprisingly pleasing to the eyes. _Nice smell, nice vibe._ Not too bad for a rundown hotel I suppose. _Could be much worse._

 _Could be haunted._

Room 625 is located near the end of the hallway to the right. The key fits poorly into the lock and I have to jimmy my way in a little. The room itself is pretty standard, with a color scheme identical to the one out in the hallway, and much of the space taken up by a queen-sized bed with flower-patterned sheets. There's a small bathroom squeezed into one corner on the right, and on the left, there's a cramped wooden table with an Accer laptop placed on top.

I pull out my holophone, check the time - _auction starts in four minutes_ \- and walk over to dump my ass down on the chair by the desk.

 **[Welcome]**

A message pops up on-screen the first instance I peel open the laptop.

Looks like they already have the auction software (something called AuctionMule) up and running, which is rather convenient.

 **[Please input a Username and Password]**

 _Username_? I think for a moment before typing in the word: **flyboi**

 _Password_? **WidowBurger** – seriously the first word that came to mind.

 **[Please input valid payment option]**

I gave the number to one of the offshore accounts Winston created for me awhile back. There's a substantial amount of money in there; most of it amassed during my adventuring - _illegal smuggling, haha I'm just kidding_ \- days after Overwatch got disbanded, and I reckon the amount of cash I have there would be more than enough to cover the cost of a miserable toy.

 **[Thank you]**

I'm promptly redirected to another screen; one with a small white box on the right hand side to input bids, and a larger square frame on the left, which I notice is showcasing a live video feed.

My eyes pop wide open when I see what's on the feed.

It's the Bastion toy! Resting pretty on a desk while a white-gloved hand turns it this way and that periodically to showcase different angles. There's a live GBC news broadcast playing on a small tablet in the background and I'm guessing they want to demonstrate that this is indeed, a live auction. Very professional, considering we are talking about an auction regarding a Happy Meal toy.

From the look of things, I deduce the toy must be somewhere inside this building, too. The desk it's placed on looks a lot like the desk I'm sitting at right now. Which would be convenient, since I can just collect it on the spot after the auction ends and not have to wait for shipping and what not.

The clock on the laptop flips the minute to 3 a.m. and a new message pops-up on screen alongside a digital timer.

 **[Auction will now commence]** \- the message says.

 **[Reserve price for item is 5000USD, with a minimum increment of 1000USD per bid.]**

 **[Auction will close in 29m 59s.]**

My jaw drops to the ground.

 _5000USD?!_

Surely there must be some kind of mistake?

I close my eyes, rub them with my fingers and open them again. The number stares back at me, unchanging.

 _Is this for real?_ I look around the room; try to search for a hidden camera or something to indicate that this is some kind of joke or a prank.

Why would someone expect _anyone_ to pay _5000US_ dollars for a Happy meal toy? _Are they all stinkin' mad here?!_

The digital timer is still counting down in the corner.

27m 38s

26m 43s

I lean back in my chair. Nobody else seems to be bidding. Not that I can even tell if there's anyone else attending this bonkers mad hatter auction since the number of bidders online isn't shown. _Oh God_. There's _nobody_ else here is there? _I'm the only one._ This is a scam-a hoax!

I look back at the screen, at the little Bastion toy lounging on the desk in the video.

 _Shite. This may be a hoax but.. just look at that toy! It's just sittin' right there-right there!_

5000USD…

 _5000USD and I will be able to get my hands on the toy. I could buy the toy right now, get on a plane by sunrise, and reach Prague by tomorrow to visit Widowmaker…_

A part of me is trying to rationalize the purchase in my head. I mean, I have already spent 1600 pounds on the plane ride here. Another few thousand pounds wouldn't make a difference, right? I could just eat nothing the next two months, take on a few more illegal smuggling jobs, and maybe everything will work out, and it will be like I've never even purchased the toy…

My fingers move. I input the minimum raise.

 **[Confirm?]** The computer asks.

I don't dare to look. My hands are quivering.

 _Confirm_.

 **[Bid: 5000USD [flyboi] ]**

 _This is it._

I feel both relieved and nauseous.

 _I have done it._

 _The toy is mine - I'm probably being terribly cheated here, but Widowmaker… she will be happy..._ I cheer up at the thought… _if Widowmaker is happy.. then I am… also..._

The timer counts down.

21m 18s.

 _Only 21 minutes till I can get the toy._

21m 10s

My hands are still shaking a little a-top the table. I feel restless.

20m 58s

 _Maybe I should just go downstairs right now and ask them to hand the toy over. I mean, I'm clearly the only one here playing this sicko game and..._

...just as I'm thinking this, a new notification pops up.

 **[Bid: 6000USD [EveningSpider] ]**

My eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets.

First, comes the feeling of total shock - _oh my God. There's someone else out here besides me? Crimelly wellies! Which poor sod is getting suckered alongside?_

And then next, comes the feeling of horror - _oh my God! I'm not the only one! Bloody tic tacs! There's some miserable shithead out here competing with me and he's gonna be unnecessarily jacking up the price of that Bastion!_

 _Shit you! Shit you!_

A white film forms behind my eyes and I can hear an incessant ringing in my ears even though I'm pretty sure Angela stopped calling three hours ago.

My fingers roam over the keyboard.

 _Clack clack clack, clack clack._ The tortured typing sounds out. I feel possessed.

 **[7000USD. Confirm?]**

My eyes shrivel inside my head.

Am I really doing this?

There's a vague notion somewhere in the back of my mind that, this can't be happening. I'm not sitting in a run-down China hotel room right now, about to place a 7000 dollars bid for a plastic toy.

My hands tremble uncontrollably. My nails turn white. I'm frothing a little at the lips.

 _Confirm._

I feel sick.

 **[Bid: 7000USD [flyboi] ]**

Not five seconds later-

 **[Bid: 8000USD [EveningSpider] ]**

Hot bile rises up the back of my throat.

Something in my brain erupts-

 **[Bid: 9,000USD [flyboi] ]**

 **[Bid: 15,000USD [EveningSpider] ]**

-I can feel the vessels in my head popping as I stare at the notification. My soul got sucked out a bit, I swear I can see it dancing in the room-

 **[Bid: 16,000USD [flyboi] ]**

 **[Bid: 20,000USD [EveningSpider] ]**

 _Crimelly tic tacs! Stop jacking up the price so much you asshole!-_

 **[Bid: 21,000USD [flyboi] ]**

 **[Bid: 25,000USD [EveningSpider] ]**

 _-You go fuck yourself!_

My eyes water.

 _Who the hell taught you how to bid?! Who!_

 **[Bid: 26,000USD [flyboi] ]**

 **[Bid: 30,000USD [EveningSpider] ]**

Right now-

 **[Bid: 31,000USD [flyboi] ]**

All I can see is red.

 **[Bid: 45,000USD [EveningSpider] ]**

There's nothing but red.

 **[Bid: 46,000USD [flyboi] ]**

 **[Bid: 50,000USD [EveningSpider] ]**

Hot, boiling, red.

 **[Bid: 100,000USD [flyboi] ]**

"You take that, you _skeeze_!" I scream into the monitor.

For a blessed moment, the notifications stop.

Ten seconds pass; thirty, forty, fift-

 **[Bid: 200,000USD [EveningSpider] ]**

The silent screaming in my head is eternal.

I'm clawing at my face. I grab a fistful of my hair in my hands, yank. A small clump falls out, tumbles down to my lap. I pay it no mind, I have a lot of hair, and right now I have a lot of anger in my chest and everything is boiling over like a kettle left to run and it feels like I'm swimming backwards in the slipstream again and then I'm-

 _Clackclackclackclackclackclackclackclackclackclackclackclackclack._

 **[Bid: 1,000,000USD [flyboi] ]**

The number pops up on the screen and I'm breathing so hard.

So hard.

 _Huff huff huff_

My pupils are dilated, my palms are sticky-wet, my legs are twitching, there's a burning coil at the base of my stomach not unlike the sensation of an arousal-adrenaline is coursing through me like a drug - _like a drug, like a drug, like a drug_. I'm panting, the room is spinning - one minute passes, two minutes, _five_.

EveningSpider does not return.

All is silent.

The timer counts down to 7 minutes 45 seconds.

"HAH!" I throw back my head. "Spooked!" I screech. "You got spooked! You don't mess with ya girl you geddit!" I spring up from my chair; scream out crazedly to nobody in particular.

No. I don't have that kind of money. Yes, the cheque is going to bounce, obviously. But right now, at this very instance, I've won and that is all that matters and-

 _Beebeep._

A new notification:

 **[Bid: 10,000,000USD [BossMan] ]**

My jaw drops.

My heart does triple flip-flops before jumping to my throat.

 _What the hell is going on!_

 _This is ridiculous! Just look at the price! Obviously no one else is taking this bidding seriously!_

The euphoria from before ebbs away as I sink back down, slowly, into the chair. This is serious warped! There is something really strange going on here, and it all revolves around the Bastion toy. My gaze shifts to the live footage again. I know the toy must be somewhere inside this building.

Maybe it's time to find out what is _really_ going on.


End file.
